Sherlock Holmes, John Luther, and the Edgar Allan Poe Murders
by JCMD
Summary: A bizarre set of murders have shocked London. When it is discovered that the murderer is inspired by the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, two separate investigations bring Sherlock and Luther together. The story takes place at the end of season three of each TV show. If you aren't caught up, there are TV show spoilers.


**Sherlock Holmes, John Luther, and the Edgar Allan Poe Murders**

 **Chapter 1**

It was complete and utter darkness. Absolute black. Everything felt fuzzy at first. Then, as he came to, he tried to move his arms. There wasn't much room at all. He could only extend them a few inches above his head and to his side in either direction before hitting the roof or the walls in whatever it was he was being contained. He was lying down, as though on a bed. Then he tried moving his legs. Not any better. He could kick them forward a few inches. He probably couldn't have even crossed them, he didn't try. It started getting hot. He sucked in air, he could hear his breathing. It was loud. For some reason he tried getting up but his head quickly came into contact with the roof, as though to mock him with the realization of his confinement. Then a thought entered his head, and like any thought indicating imminent danger, once it enters the mind, it becomes trapped, in the same manner he was trapped. He was in a box, a coffin. His fear was confirmed when he began anxiously wiping his hands across the walls of his confinement. He could feel the satiny cloth that lined it. He screamed.

His eyes began to adjust. As they did he noticed a thin hole in the box. From this hole a small amount of dirt fell into the coffin. He smelt its earthy aroma and felt the gritty texture on his face as the grains continued to fall. He realized that he had been buried underground. He screamed again. He banged the top of the coffin. Again and again he banged at it as hard as he could all the while screaming as loud as his lungs would allow. The sorry result of his efforts was limited to allowing a few more bits of dirt to fall into the coffin. He took a deep breath. The thought, not merely a thought, but _the_ thought entered his head and he began to panic. "I'm going to run out of air. Oh my God, I'm going to die. Oh fuck! I'm going to die in here!" Although he knew it was probably pointless, he started banging the top of the coffin again. Dirt fell onto his face and into his eyes, forcing him to stop his efforts. He rubbed the dirt out from his eyes. As he did so he felt something brushing against his hand. When he was able to open his eyes again he saw it, a single thin piece of string hanging from the top of the coffin and exiting through the tiny hole from where the dirt had come.

He delicately placed his fingers around the string and gave it a slight tug. Nothing happened. At least he didn't notice that anything had happened. Had he not been buried under six feet of soil and currently in a state of panic, he would have heard the faint ringing of a bell attached to the string, placed several inches above the ground. Unfortunately, no one was above his burial site at that moment to hear the bell either. He yelled, "Help! Please, somebody help me!" Now he began to sob. Tears streamed down his face and he began clawing at the roof of the coffin. He ripped at the coffin's fabric above him and once he felt the exposed wood he began to scratch at it. He realized this effort was futile. He'd seen enough horror flicks during his nights at university to realize that scratching at the coffin is the last act of desperation before death. He couldn't help it though. 'What else am I supposed to do? Just relax until I run out of air and suffocate down here?' he thought to himself.

Just then, as he was scratching at the roof, his fingers had grasped and pulled the string. He thought he heard a noise. He stopped. He very carefully and very quietly grabbed the string and pulled at it again. Through the small opening in the casket for the string, he listened for and heard a sound, it was that of a bell, travelled down into the coffin. "Holy shit! It's a bell!" He yelled again as he rang, "Help, help! Somebody!" Nothing, well, as far as he was certain, nothing. What he didn't notice was that a jogger, coming from the adjacent park, had just passed, but did not notice the sound of the bell because she was wearing earbuds, playing music from her iPhone as she jogged.

After a few minutes of this he grew tired. Inside the coffin it became even hotter than before and harder to breathe. He realized he was running out of air. He thought to himself that he needed to stay calm, move and say as little as possible so as to reduce his breathing and conserve oxygen. He decided to calmly give subtle yet consistent tugs of the string. He could hear the bell. Somehow it sounded louder to him now. After a moment or two it became to him a symphony of noise. Almost to the point that he was amazed no one could hear it. After several minutes he grew dizzy. It was hotter still and even harder to breathe than even just a few moments ago. He moved his leg, as though it might help him stay awake. He felt something. He stretched his hand to reach in between his thighs and grab the object. Once he had it in his hands he couldn't tell what it was but felt like an animal, furry almost, but most certainly dead. Upon this realization he dropped it in disgust. He tried not to think on it further and erase it from his mind as quickly as it had entered because it didn't seem like something he could use to help his predicament anyway and served only as a disturbing distraction.

A grounds keeper was mowing the grass nearby. He decided to take a water break near the site of a freshly covered grave. That is when he noticed the bell. "What the bloody hell?" He said out loud, confusion written on his face as he tilted his head and knelt down to exam this bell sticking out of the ground. He thought it might just be something someone left at the grave, but it still struck him as an odd thing to leave at a grave site. Then as he got up, shrugged his head, and turned away to grab some water from the bottle in the cup holder on the mover, he heard the ringing of the bell, ' _ting, ting, ting, ting, ting!'_ "What the fuck is that?" He questioned as he turned around to look at the bell. _'Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting!'_ "Well, what the…? The bleeding bell is ringing!" He went to exam it further. Although, if he were being honest, he nearly pissed himself out of sheer terror. The dead had never scared the groundskeeper, but now it seemed as though the dead were about to rise. Then he noticed the small hole in the ground. He looked in it; black. "Hello? Is anyone down there?" He felt foolish talking into a grave. Then, a very weak, "Hello? Yes, oh my God, please get help. I don't have much time. Not much air." The victim said from the grave. The groundskeeper, couldn't make out much of what the victim actually said, but he understood good and well that someone was trapped, buried alive. He yelled down the tiny hole, "I'm calling 999, I'll get help. You just sit tight."

 **Chapter 2**

John Luther is in bed when he hears his phone vibrate. He realizes he forgot to turn it off. 'If you leave it on, all it does is ring.' He thought to himself as he slowly got up, out of bed, reaching for the phone. He'd like to turn it off now, but he knows it is work calling. He knows he'll pick up. "Yeah, it's John." He says into the phone.

"It's Teller, we've got one we'd like you to check out." The voice from the phone responds. It is his boss, DCU Rose Teller.

"OK, where?"

DSU Rose Teller gives him the address of the graveyard.

"Well, at least it won't have to go anywhere when we're done with it." Luther's poor attempt at a jest.

"Just get here as soon as possible" Teller responds, anxiously.

"Alright, boss." Luther says before hanging up the phone.

DCI John Luther throws on one of his gray shirts, pulls on a pair of black trousers and quickly manages to tie a red necktie around his shirt collar as he slips on a pair of black work boots and puts on a gray jacket. Out of habit he reaches for his gray tweed coat, but then the muscles in his face around his mouth tense up as he remembers that he threw it into the Thames while on the bridge during his last conversation with Alice Morgan. 'Could she have done this one?' Luther thought to himself. He didn't know any details of the case except that it was in a graveyard. When he thought about the jest he made at Teller he realized, 'Alice would have appreciated the joke more.' He was hoping that whoever did this, it wasn't Alice. Not only because she was clever and would make solving it hard for him, but for as much as he knew she was a cold blooded psychopath, or perhaps sociopath is more fitting, he respected her.

Luther leaves his flat and hops into his vintage blue Volvo and drives off. He listens to a David Bowie song playing on the radio but once it ends he turns the radio off and drives in silence. He thinks about Zoe, his wife whom his former colleague, Ian Reed, had killed. Then, as he sees the flash of the police cars and the emergency personal surrounding the crime scene at the graveyard, his mind clears and he starts to focus on the case in front of him.

As he exits his car he stands straight, looks at the scene while flattening his tie to his shirt. He realizes how strange he feels without his coat, especially since there is a slight chill in the morning air. He sees that a coffin has been pulled from the ground. Several crime scene investigators are working the area, placing yellow _Forensic Evidence_ cones at various places along the scene that has been roped off with police tape tied to several trees in the graveyard. He approaches, flashes his badge at an officer guarding the perimeter and ducks under the tape, entering an incredible scene.

DCU Rose Teller has already seen Luther and begins to approach him before he notices her. "One hell of a mess we have here." She tells him.

"What happened?" He asks.

"So, a grave is prepared yesterday for a funeral that was to take place this afternoon, but some lunatic buries a live victim sometime over the evening or before sunrise this morning. The groundskeeper, while taking a break from mowing, notices a bell ringing next to the grave. He realizes there is someone buried alive ringing the bell for help. He even chats with the victim, and then calls 999. Of course, by the time anyone can get out here and manages to dig the victim out of the grave, the poor bloke asphyxiates. Too much carbon dioxide built up in the coffin."

"A bell? Connected to the coffin that the victim was ringing in order to get help?" Luther questions to make sure he heard it right.

"Yes. That's it." Teller looks at him as though it means something more than the obvious.

"Yeah, it isn't right, is it?" Luther responds.

"Well get this." Teller begins to say. "Take a look at what we found in the coffin with the victim." She walks him over to the coffin which is covered from the public eye, under a large blue plastic tent. The coffin lid had been opened for investigators to see. The victim is still inside. Panic and desperation written on his face. In the coffin is a clear, transparent evidence bag which Teller pulls out to show Luther. He takes it from her to observe its contents. He takes a close look, his face tightens, especially around his left eye. He lowers the evidence bag and looks at Teller.

"Is this a raven?" He asks.

"I'm having someone from the ornithological society in London confirm it, but yes, that appears to be the case."

"Poe." Is all Luther says. He waits for Teller to respond.

"Poe? What do you mean?"

"American gothic writer, mid nineteenth century. Edgar Allan Poe. He wrote a short story about his fear of being buried alive. So, in the story, he finds himself buried alive but had a bell hooked up to his coffin he could ring so as to find someone to get him out. _The Premature Burial_ it's called. Then, Poe's most famous work is his poem, _The Raven_. I've got an old book filled with Poe stories."

"Are you telling me that our suspect was inspired by an Edgar Allan Poe story and used that to kill this man?"

"It sure looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Shit. Well how many stories like this did Poe write? Are we looking at a potential serial killer who is just getting started?"

He gives Teller a look that either reads, 'do you really want to know?' or 'Are you serious?' Then he responds, "Oh, most assuredly, boss. That bird is a message. This bloke wants to put a signature on his kills."

 **Chapter 3**

Sherlock Holmes is sitting on his sofa watching news on BBC. The top story is the murder of a London man, whose name was yet to be released, buried alive and left for dead. Although the police wouldn't comment, it had leaked to the press that a bell was attached to the coffin as a means to give false hope, and therefore add to the torture of the victim. Holmes said aloud, "Boring" despite no one else being in the room to hear him, and changed the channel to an episode of _Dr. Who_. It made for background noise while he sipped coffee and read the news from his laptop looking for something interesting.

Watson entered the flat door, took off his jacket, propped his walking cane next to his lounge chair and sat down. He looked over at Sherlock, still looking at his laptop screen, then to the TV where he saw that Sherlock was 'watching' _Dr. Who_ , then looked back at Sherlock with a confused look on his face. Sherlock looked up from his laptop, and directly at John, shrugged his shoulders and then went back to looking at the laptop screen.

"So, anything interesting?" Watson asked, referring to whatever it was Sherlock was viewing or reading on his laptop.

"Not really." Sherlock said, drawing out the words.

"Well then, so what is the plan for today?"

"Mmh, I don't really have one. You? Sherlock said, never looking at John, still focused on his laptop screen.

"Oh, you know. Lunch with Mary. Otherwise, I was planning on taking things slow today. Maybe I'll read a book, or watch a movie.

"It would seem, John, that you are rather bored. Just as I am. We need a new case." Sherlock said this more in an attempt to see if John was even interested in working another case, than as a means to note their collective boredom.

John became impatient with Sherlock, and wanted to know what was so interesting on the laptop. "What are you looking at on the computer, Sherlock?"

"I just received an e-mail." was all he responded.

"An e-mail? Well, what does it say?" John asked inquisitively and a bit impatiently.

"Potential client. His wife went away on business and hasn't come home. Two days late, no call, no text, or even e-mail to the husband. He is concern, obviously."

"Ah, I see. Well, isn't that sort of thing your bread and butter? Look into it."

"Me? Just me?" Sherlock said, feeling the distance growing between him and Watson since their last case which involved Mary shooting Sherlock, nearly killing him. "I thought, John, as a married man, such a case might be of interest to yourself." Sherlock said, trying to irritate John. Sherlock was still angered by the bullet he had taken. But still wanting John to work with him on a case.

"Are you asking me to join you in this one?"

"Well, of course." Sherlock responded, finding it difficult to contain a level of excitement at the prospect of Watson joining him on this case.

"Well, alright then. Let's see if we can find the man's wife." Watson said, surprisingly enthusiastic.

Sherlock then realized how glad he was that Watson had not been in the room to hear his earlier comment about the premature burial case as being boring. On the surface, it seemed far more exciting than a missing spouse. Sherlock thought to himself that it might be a simple matter of a wife that had grown tired of an overbearing husband and needed some time away. Or perhaps she was having an affair and by not communicating with her husband she was looking for a way to begin the process of bringing her frustrations into the open. He couldn't be certain. But he also hoped for something more sinister. Maybe it was something in his gut that was telling him to inquire about this case. He wasn't certain, but the feeling continued to grow. He might be onto something big, and most importantly, interesting.

 **Chapter 4**

Sherlock and Watson arrived at the home of James and Melissa Peters in the early afternoon. James was glad Sherlock had decided to take his case. Mr. Peters informed them that he was a big fan of Dr. Watson's blog on Sherlock Holmes and the science of deduction. At this, Sherlock merely gave a dull smile and a quick raise of his eyebrows, as though to say in an almost sarcastic fashion, 'oh, delightful.' James led them to the living room and offered them tea, coffee, or water. Watson took James up on the offer of tea, but Sherlock wanted to get past the formalities and get on with the case.

"So your wife is a real estate saleswomen." Sherlock said to Mr. Peters.

"Why, yes, she is. How did you know that, Mr. Holmes?" James Peters asked, with a quizzical face.

"Well, for one, the trophy on the fireplace mantle is in the shape of a house. Also, the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs next to the garage. Dead giveaway." Sherlock said. "So why do you think she hasn't returned home?"

"I honestly can't say. I don't know." James responded.

"Any marital problems? Big fight, just before she left? An affair perhaps!" Asked Sherlock, the last suggestion a bit too enthusiastically perhaps.

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. At least not that I'm aware of. We had a pleasant dinner. Lots of talking and laughing. We got along well that last night, you know." James slightly embarrassed and hoped Sherlock and Watson caught his meaning without going into further detail.

"Yes, yes. Of course." Sherlock said as a way to ease his client's mind. "So did you communicate with each other during her absence? The time she was scheduled to be away."

"Yes, she called me the night before she was to get on the plane and come home. But she never came home."

All of a sudden Sherlock and Watson heard what sounded like a cat.

"Meow."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Then Sherlock very calmly looked over at James and asked, "Is that a cat?"

Again they heard a soft, "Meow."

"Yes." James responded. About two days ago the cat went into hiding. I suppose she got worried about Melissa not being home and now I just hear her periodically, whining for her."

"Two days ago?" John asked.

"Yes." James responded.

"But your wife has been away from home for how long was it?" Sherlock asked.

"A week. Plus the two days of course." James responded.

"So, the cat doesn't go into hiding until a full week after your wife left, and only does so when her absence cannot be explained?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, yes, I suppose so. Why? Is that significant?"

"Oh, Mr. Peters" Sherlock says with a stern and grave tone, "I am afraid it might just be the single most significant fact about this case."

James Peters' face read of shock and amazement. He didn't know whether or not Sherlock Holmes was a genius that had just cracked the case wide open, or if he were a raving mad lunatic and should be asked to leave immediately. Ultimately, James' curiosity won this internal argument.

"How do you mean, sir?" James asked, his throat gone dry causing a struggle to get the words out of his mouth.

All the while Watson had a puzzled look on his face. How could a cat gone into hiding have anything to do with James' wife disappearing on a business trip?

"Mr. Peters." Sherlock looked directly at James with a serious countenance. "Are you absolutely positive that your wife did not return home after her trip? Is there anything different about the house from the night you spoke to her on the phone and when she did not return home after the supposed flight she would have taken? Anything at all, even if it is just a piece of clothing left on the floor that hadn't been; any small detail at all."

James thought for a moment. Stress now written on his face and could be seen by the beads of perspiration on his forehead. All he could think about was the damn cat. He thought to himself, 'what could the cat possibly have to do with this?'

"Well, Mr. Holmes" James began, "The cat hasn't used her litter box during the past two days either." James didn't see how this would be useful, but Sherlock did ask for even the smallest detail.

"Where do you keep the litter box, Mr. Peters?" Sherlock asked.

"In the basement. I can show you if you honestly think it will help."

"Sherlock," John said, with some frustration in his voice because he simply couldn't see where Sherlock was going with this line of inquiry, "How does the cat and its litter box matter in this case?"

Sherlock looked directly at John, anger written on his face and he couldn't bring himself to say it looking at James, although he knew he was about to find out the horrible truth anyway. "Because John, Melissa is buried in the basement, behind one of its walls, and the cat is there with her!" Sherlock had said this thought aloud as it came to him. He also found himself thinking that the premature burial case he saw on the news this morning wasn't as boring as he had originally believed to it be.

James' face went white with horror.

 **Chapter 5**

DCI John Luther is in his office sitting at his desk when he gets a text message from a number he doesn't recognize.

"You will want to come to 221B Baker St. This evening, 7 o'clock. Don't be late."

'What is this all about?' He asks himself.

He put his phone on the desk, turns to his computer and runs a check on the number.

"Who is Sherlock Holmes?" He asks aloud, to no one in particular. He wonders if he might be the killer, ready to turn himself in to the police. But then thinks that would be too easy and he knows it. 'But,' he thought to himself, 'it would make this case a lot easier if I were dealing with a boastful killer that needed the attention.' This sort of thing had happened before in Luther's career.

He decides to give the number a ring to see what this is all about. As the phone rings he begins to wonder how this, Sherlock Holmes, got his number in the first place.

" _Ah, DCI Luther!"_ Sherlock's voice is heard from Luther's phone.

"Yes, this is DCI John Luther, may I ask whom this is and what your text is in reference to?"

" _Right, well, I believe my instructions were quite clear Inspector Luther. I cannot talk right now. I am at a crime scene that I think, ha, I am certain, is related to the one involving the prematurely buried man you are investigating."_

"Wait, related? How?"

 _"_ _Have to go, inspector. 7 O'clock, 221B Baker St. Clear?"_

"Alright."

Luther hears a click from the other end of the line. Sherlock has ended the call. He takes a deep breath and rubs his eyebrow with his thumb and forefinger. And then, as if not sure what to do next, scratches at his forehead. Just then DCU Rose Teller knocked at his office door, although it was already open.

"Yes!" Inviting Teller to enter.

"We need to go to the morgue. They're back with the autopsy results."

"Alright." Luther straightened his red tie as he and Teller walked out of his office and made their way to Teller's vehicle in the station's garage.

When they take their seats in the car, John sits silently and turns his head slightly to look out of the side window. Teller instantly reads this as Luther avoiding making eye contact with her and asks him,

"Alright, what is it?"

"What do you mean, boss?"

"Oh, come now, don't play coy with me, something is up. I can read it all over your face. All the way out of the office and to the car you've looked like something else is on your mind, out with it now."

"It's nothing. Someone called me, said they have a lead on the case. I'll check it out when we're done at the morgue." Luther said, hoping Teller would find this a suitable response. She didn't.

"Well, what do you mean, 'a lead'? She said as she started the engine.

"I don't know. Let's just deal with this and then I'll deal with that. I've got his name and address. I'll go talk to him after."

She looked at him for what seemed an hour, her face read of a hundred questions, all of which she wanted to ask, but didn't want to risk Luther losing his cool. Instead she put the car into drive and drove off.

…...

A few minutes later they arrived at the morgue. The coroner provided them with a lot of technical information, most of it exactly what they expected to hear. Essentially, the victim died from a buildup of carbon dioxide in the lungs and lack of oxygen. Several cuts and scratches on the fingers and nails corresponded with the scratching of the coffin as he panicked and attempted to find a way out of his predicament. But as for the victim ending up in the coffin in the first place, the coroner noted traces of an anesthesia, a type commonly used with surgery patients being put under before a procedure.

"Well" Luther started, "that seems about right. As we expected, anyway. Of course, we still don't know how the killer and the victim came into contact with each other. What was the relationship? Did they know each other? Did the killer pick the victim up at a pub or something? And why do this? What's the motive here?"

The coroner looked to Luther and asked, "How did the guy breathe for as long as he did? Honestly, under those conditions, at least as they were described to me, he should have died not long after being buried. Oh, and as to your pub theory, I didn't trace any alcohol in his system."

Rose Teller answered, "A thin PVC pipe went out from the coffin. It kept a bell in place and protected it from being covered with dirt. That way the killer could ensure it would work, and I suppose, keep the victim alive a little bit longer, but not long enough to give him any meaningful chance. Absolute torture."

Just then Luther gets another text from Sherlock Holmes. He turned away from Rose and the coroner and pulled his phone from his pants pocket.

"If you're not busy, come early."

"If you are busy, come anyway."

Luther turned towards Teller holding his phone to her and said, "Boss, I've got to go."

She looked at him perplexed, suggesting the question, 'what, do you have somewhere more important to be?' He successfully read the expression on her face and said, "It's that lead on the case. He wants to meet now. Is there anything here you need me for, or can you handle this on your own?" He knew the question would get her off his back and she would let him go. She waved him on and said as he opened the door of the morgue to leave, "I want a report on my desk first thing tomorrow on this lead." He was already running down the long hallway leading out to the stairs.

 **Chapter 6**

Luther rang the bell at 221 Baker St. Mrs. Hudson opened the front door. She looked Luther once over, and was quite impressed.

"Oh, my, my now. Look at you. Oh, uh, you must be here for Sherlock." She said to him, all the while giggling, but trying to hide it by covering her mouth with her hand, all the while seeming decades younger than she was. "Well, come along then."

Luther followed her up the staircase. He smelt a trace of formaldehyde in the air and thought it disturbing. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to Sherlock's flat. As she did so she said aloud, "Sherlock, someone to see you, dear." Luther assumed the old lady might be Sherlock's mother and that he was wasting his time coming here to the flat of some man-child that wanted to play copper.

Sherlock was sitting in a red chair, facing the window looking over Baker Street, tuning a violin. He stopped tuning at Mrs. Hudson's mention of a visitor. He set the violin down on the floor atop its case and thanked Mrs. Hudson. He then stood up and turned around, now face to face with DCI John Luther.

"DCI John Luther, I presume?" Sherlock said to him.

"Yeah. So what's this all about? You wanting me to come here?" Luther asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice as he had come to suspect who Sherlock was and his motives for asking him out to Baker Street.

"I'll just leave you two to it." Mrs. Hudson said before quietly excusing herself from the flat, but not before taking one last glance at Luther.

"DCI Luther, I'd like you to meet someone. Please." Sherlock led Luther into the kitchen and dining area where, at the table, sat a distraught James Peters being consoled by Dr. John Watson. "DCI Luther, I'd like you to meet Mr. James Peters. The man who isn't in extreme distress is my colleague, Dr. John Watson."

"How do you do?" Watson said to Luther as a way of introduction, while getting up from his chair to shake Luther's hand.

"Well, why don't you tell me what this is all about. I've got police work to attend." Luther said to the group.

"I lost my wife today, inspector." James said to Luther.

"Come again?" Luther, his curiosity peaked.

"We found her body buried behind the basement wall, dead, an axe to her head." James struggled to keep the sobs backs which would make him incapable of speaking.

Luther felt his face turning into knots. "Your wife was murdered, sir? When did you notice the body? Is it here?"

"No, no, inspector. Not here." Sherlock assured him. "Mr. Peters asked Dr. Watson and myself to look into a missing person case. His wife went away on business and never came home. Well, at least it was suspected that she hadn't returned home. We discovered her body after tearing down a section of the brick wall in the basement. We only discovered it because their cat had been trapped behind the wall with the victim. The meowing of the cat led us to her."

"No, no. This isn't right." Luther responded. His face felt like unarranged puzzle pieces.

"It would seem, Inspector Luther, that we are chasing the same man." Sherlock said.

"Poe." Luther responded.

"Ah, yes, inspector!" Sherlock responded with a tone of sheer excitement. "I was hoping you were a well-read man and could put it together! Your case is so clearly from Edgar Allan Poe's story, _The Premature Burial_ and ours appears to be a recreation of _The Black Cat_."

"Yes, well, there is one more bit of bad news to discuss. Sherlock?" Watson said to his friend while handing him a flash drive.

"What's this now?" Luther asked as Sherlock took the drive and walked back into the living room to put it into the laptop sitting on the table. At this, James couldn't hold back the sobs and retreated into one of the bedrooms.

"The killer left us a video. While I load it, Watson, will you share the crime scene photos with DCI Luther?"

"Ah, yes. Indeed." Watson said as he took his phone out from his pants pocket. He began to scroll through the twenty or so photos he took of the crime scene in the basement of the Peters' home. Luther looked over the photos revealing a horrific scene. The victim, was in fact buried behind a brick wall in the basement. An axe lodged in her skull. In her hand was placed the flash drive Sherlock was now putting into his laptop. But another object caught Luther's eye. Pictures of a large black bird, which had been tied with string to the victim's wrist. "Is that a raven?" Luther asked.

"Yes, it appears so. I thought it might have been a crow, but we looked into it and it is indeed a raven." Watson answered him.

"A raven was found at the scene this morning with the premature burial." Luther responded.

"The video is ready!" Sherlock said to them.

The three of them watched the video. Sherlock and Watson had already viewed it, but given the disturbing nature of it, they decided to watch it with Luther rather than make him witness it alone. The video contained the murder of Melissa Peters. She was gagged, trying to scream. Sweat and blood covered her face. The murderer wore a black ski mask, but his hands and the area around his eyes were visible, indicating that he was white. He didn't speak much, but when he yelled at his victim he did so in a British accent, probably originating from London. He stepped out of frame. Then came the terrible moment. They could see, from the lighting in the room, the shadow of the axe being raised. Melissa Peters' eyes became enlarged with anxious fear, terror written on them. She breathed short heavy panicked breaths and then in a flash the axe came down and lodged itself in her skull. Brain matter and blood sprayed from the wound, then flowed in a river down her forehead. Her eyes drifted upwards and crossed, as though trying to get a clear view of the axe that had just ended her life. Then, after a few seconds, but seemingly an eternity to Luther, her body slumped over and fell to the floor, most of it out of frame. At this the killer came back into frame, stared into the camera, and took off the ski mask. What Luther saw caused him chills. He felt goose prickles creeping up his arm. The killer had the look and appearance of Edgar Allan Poe. He hadn't noticed it before, but even the clothes looked a cheap imitation of 1840s American style clothing that the real Edgar Allan Poe would have worn. The killer had a mop of black hair, somewhat disheveled and parted on the side, just as Edgar Allan Poe had worn his. He had the same small mustache as the author. Even his eyes had the sad solemn look of Edgar Allan Poe in the late 1840s, just before he died.

Luther called DCU Rose Teller. "Hey, boss. Yeah, I got something you're going to need to see. Don't let the press get wind of this just yet as this one wants the attention. I'm now certain we are dealing with a serial murderer. We've got another body. Yeah, I'll send you the address." Luther ended the call and went into the bedroom where James went to avoid seeing the video again. Luther asked him for his home address and texted it to Teller.

 **Chapter 7**

Before leaving Baker Street for the Peters' home, Luther told Sherlock and Watson that he would get back to them the next day, but that they should have called the police and not have interfered with a crime scene. When Sherlock seemed to brush off this advice, which he demonstrated by shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes, Luther lost his cool.

"You've probably got your fucking fingerprints all over the place! Do you realize what that could mean for the two of you? Try keeping your hands in your pockets. It reduces the temptation to touch things. Now," Luther points to James, and tries to regain his composure, "we need to get this man to the station so he can be interviewed and make a statement." Watson agreed to escort James to the police station. Meanwhile, Sherlock pulled a book from his bookshelf, _The Complete Tales of Edgar Allan Poe_ , sat down, and went to reading Poe stories for any possible clues into the mind of this serial killer.

Just before Luther, Watson, and James exited the flat, Sherlock, nose already into the book as he sat reading, asked Luther "Just out of curiosity, Inspector. How did you know not to let the press on to the authorial relevance of this case? And that the killer most certainly wants attention?"

Luther tilted his head and was perhaps surprised that he decided to entertain Sherlock's question with an answer, given how angry he was just then. "Because he took the mask off. For whatever reason, he didn't want her to know who he was. But he wants us to know."

Sherlock did not respond, but the smile he could not contain indicated that he was pleasantly impressed with Luther's skills at deduction.

"Oh, inspector!" Sherlock called out to Luther as he reached for the door to the flat. "Before you leave, you should take this with you. I'm sure it has evidentiary value." Sherlock handed him the flash drive with the murder video.

"Cheers." Luther said to him as he grabbed the flash drive and then exited the flat with Watson and James.

…

By the time Luther arrived at the Peters' residence after dropping James and Watson off at the police station, Teller was already there, along with a forensic team and several police officers who went to interview neighbors and survey the area. He entered the home, and was careful to keep his hands in his pockets.

"Ah, DCI Luther. You're here." Teller said to him upon noting his arrival. "So, what do you make of those so-called consulting detectives over on Baker Street?" She asked him.

Come again, Ma'am? Consulting detectives?" Luther asked.

"I asked around about them. It didn't take long before an inspector, name is Lestrade, contacted me when he learned they had uncovered a body and he informed me that they check out. They are legitimate, bizarre, but legitimate. Lestrade often consults Mr. Holmes when he is having difficulty with a case."

"How much damage did they do to the scene? Oh, and they gave me this. They said it was on the body, in the victim's hand." Luther handed Teller the flash drive.

"I wish they would have let us take down the wall." Teller began, "We've probably lost most, if not all, evidence we might have retrieved from it. They said this was on the body?" Teller said after taking the flash drive from Luther's hand.

"Yeah."

"Well, what's on it?"

"The murder. And the killer shows his face after the act." Luther tells her. Teller's face read of amazement, her mouth hanging open.

Just then, the press vehicles began flooding the street and reporters streamed onto the Peters' lawn with microphones in hand stretched over the blue and white police tape, hoping to get a quote from anyone with police credentials.

 **Chapter 8**

Alice Morgan was in her flat that evening. She was sitting in a chair, sipping coffee, while watching news of the murders on the television. She saw John Luther's image flash across the screen as he appeared to speak with an officer just outside the front door of the residence. The officer went back into the house, and John went to speak with the press. Her heart seemed to flutter and she sat erect, grasping her coffee with both hands as though it was Luther's warmth and not that of the cup she was feeling. A small smile emerged on her face, but only for a second. She caught herself doing it; being happy to see Luther that is, if only on the television. She hadn't seen him in person since that day on the bridge when he tossed his coat into the Thames. That was months ago. Then she heard John's voice coming from the television.

"Well, what we do know is that we are dealing with a seriously disturbed man. Unfortunately, since this is in the early stages on an on-going investigation, I cannot tell you much about the situation here. I can tell you that the family has been made aware, and that the victim is Melissa Peters."

Members of the press jumped with questions about the murder weapon and motive, all of which Luther declined to comment. Alice continued to watch Luther take questions from the press corps. The bright lights of their cameras beaming right into his face causing him to squint. The pained look of his countenance as he repeated the same answer of "I cannot comment on that at this time" as the press continued to ask question after question they themselves knew Luther could never answer at a time such as this. After several minutes of watching this media circus while pacing her living room, Alice decided to text him.

"Hello, John. You look busy."

There was no response. She thought of texting him again, but realized there was no point. He probably had his phone off, especially since he was working. He had always said that 'if you leave it on, all it does is ring.' So instead of waiting for Luther to text her back, she decided to go looking into the case herself and force Luther to have to confront her.

She began searching online for anything she could find on the case Luther was working. Details were murky at best, but she gathered that he was probably dealing with a serial killer since Luther was working both murder cases. Several minutes later she felt she had a breakthrough when she came across Dr. John Watson's blog and a vague reference to the Peters' case was mentioned. Watson had stopped writing on the matter when he concluded the two murders were connected and that the police were conducting an on-going investigation; of which they had allowed Sherlock and Watson to take part. But Watson forgot to delete the reference from his blog, much to the joy of Alice Morgan. '221 B Baker Street. Well then, I think it is time to pay Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson a visit.' She said to herself as she grabbed her coat and exited her flat.

…

By the time her cab arrived in front of 221 B Baker Street that night, a heavy rain began to fall. Alice rushed out of the cab and rang the buzzer. Without even asking whom it was or their purpose for visiting, the front door unlocked with a clang and a buzz, indicating it was on a timer and to enter immediately, lest she lose her chance. Alice hurriedly opened the door, came inside and lowered the hood of her coat, all before the door behind her closed again. She looked up and noticed the staircase that would lead to the second floor, presumably where she would find 221 B. She climbed the stairs and as she reached the turn in the staircase she saw a tall skinny man with a mop of curly dark hair facing her.

"Who are you and what brings you here at this late hour?" Sherlock asked her.

"You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" She responded.

"Yes, I am fully aware of who I am, but the question I asked was whom you are and why you are here?"

"I'm a friend of John's." She responded.

Sherlock only responded with a perplexed look on his face.

"He never mentioned me to you?" Alice asked.

"No. He didn't." Sherlock said slowly. He was trying to gauge the woman now standing half way up his staircase. What he didn't realize was that she meant John Luther, not John Watson. An honest miscalculation because if she were looking for Luther, it would be reasonable to suspect she would go to his flat at this late hour rather than Watson's bachelor flat that he had shared with Sherlock.

"Might you have any idea where he is? He didn't return my text earlier?" She asked, trying to seem innocent and somewhat distraught.

"I would presume that he is at home, with his wife." Sherlock said to her, perhaps trying to throw off this lovesick woman by confusing her, or at the least, get her to go away.

"His wife?" She questioned. An image of Zoe crept into her mind.

"Yes. Home with his wife." Sherlock repeated.

At this, Alice let out a short gasp, revealed a slight smile, and her eyes lit up. The realization of her mistake had come to her. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, you thought I meant the doctor. Ha! No, I am looking for DCI John Luther." Alice trying to pass off the mistake as though it had been entirely Sherlock's

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

Alice smiled and responded cheerfully, "Alice Morgan. Delighted, I'm sure."

"Well Ms. Morgan, it has been pleasant making your acquaintance, but as you can see, it is late and DCI Luther is not here. Good night." Sherlock said and quickly made his way back to the door of his flat.

"Wait!" Alice exclaimed just as Sherlock was about to close the door. "I can help. I'll help you figure out who did these crimes!"

At this, Sherlock sensed desperation in her voice. He thought to himself, 'Why does she want this?' He began to perceive that this woman, despite her beauty, was insane. He thought he could see it. Something in her eyes, as though he could look into her deranged soul. The curl of her lip perhaps? The shadowy tone of her voice. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but she frightened him. He felt goose-prickles forming on his arm. He thought of Irene Adler for a moment. Sherlock couldn't resist. "Please, do come in." he said with a smile, fake, but convincing, as he pointed his arm in the direction of the door which he then opened, inviting her to join him.

 **Chapter 9**

The next morning Luther was back at the police station, trying to figure out a way to break the case open. He sat in a swivel chair at the middle of the station floor, photos from the crime scene, and stills from the video, spread in a circle on the floor around his chair. He sat there, hands forming a triangle, his forefingers resting just above his lip and his thumbs under his chin. He took slow, deep, steady breaths; eyes intently focused on the photographs underneath him. All the while, the other inspectors are sitting at their desks staring at computer screens, occasionally glancing over at Luther to see if he has had any revelations.

After about a half an hour later Luther's office phone rings. He doesn't want to get up to check it but after the third ring he changes his mind and does. The number is blocked. He answers it anyway. "Deh-dum, deh-dum, deh-dum." Is all he hears.

"What is this bullocks?" he says aloud.

"Deh-dum, deh-dum, deh-dum." The noise continues.

"Oy, Boss!" He yells over to Teller, pointing at his phone indicating that he wants to put this on speaker to see if anyone else can make something of it.

"Deh-dum, deh-dum, deh-dum." The sound continues to emanate from the phone.

"Is that….?" Teller starts to say, and then looks at Luther. Luther, with a stern countenance simply nods his head twice.

"It's a, it's the sound of a beating heart!" Teller states, alarmed. Just then, the call goes dead. "Were we able to get a trace?" She calls out.

"No, Boss." Benny Silver, the call tracer and all around computer wizard, announces. "We needed more time."

"Shit!" She yells.

"He's going to strike again." Luther tells her. "And soon."

…...

Watson returned to 221 B, and when he unlocked the door he came across a sight that nearly put him into shock. A red haired woman of about thirty was sitting on the couch wearing nothing but one of Sherlock's dress shirts and a pair of women's undergarments.

"Uh, hello." He said to her, surprise written on his face, but with a smile and trying to present a cheerful demeanor.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock said coming into the room from the kitchen, chest and feet bare, wearing only pajama pants, and sipping a cup of coffee.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Watson asked, now with confusion written on his face.

"No! Not at all. John, I'd like you to meet Alice Morgan."

"Oh, hello." John said to her.

"Hello." Alice responded, calmly and cheerfully.

"Oh, uh, John, I should let you know, Ms. Morgan is completely insane."

Watson did not know how to respond to this.

Sherlock could see that Watson was not sure what to make of the situation he just walked into and sought to clarify things.

"Ms. Morgan came by last night looking for John. I wasn't sure what she meant, as I assumed she meant you, but in fact she is a friend of John Luther. Anyway, we stayed up all night chatting about her relationship with DCI Luther and she told me all about his wife, Zoe, well, his dead wife now; the man who killed her, Ian Reed, as well as Luther's history with the police."

"Ah, I see. So, where are her clothes? Ah, you know what, I don't need to know. It is none of my business. I am so sorry I even asked." Watson responded.

"He thinks we had sex." Alice Morgan chimed into the conversation.

"I spilt tea on her and I thought to be gentlemanly and not make her go back out into the rain. So she stayed on the couch last night." Sherlock clarified for Watson.

"Ah, I see." Watson responded. "So, about the part where she is insane?" Concern was now written on his face. He hoped Sherlock was joking, but also knew how terrible Sherlock was at making jokes. Not to mention how rarely he actually ever made them, since Sherlock did not see any practical use for them. Although Alice seemed amused at the suggestion.

"It seems that Mr. Holmes might very well agree with DCI Luther's conclusion that I killed my parents. A silly accusation; at least an unprovable one." Alice said with a touch of pride and amusement in her voice, as though suggesting she did in fact kill her parents but that since it was unprovable, it was silly for anyone to suggest that she actually had.

"So, did you?" Watson asked anyway.

Alice did not respond, but a small and brief smile emerged on her face and her eyes lit up, if for only a fraction of a second.

"Anyway, Watson" Sherlock began, "Ms. Morgan would like to offer any assistance she can. In our discussion on the case last night we concluded that it might be worthwhile to infiltrate any book clubs, specifically ones that cover American gothic literature. Perhaps the murderer might have joined such a group and someone might recognize him."

"That seems a rather clever idea, Sherlock." Watson replied.

"Alice will be our book worm. There is the possibility that because of your blog, John, you or I might be recognized. Therefore, Alice will play the role of the Edgar Allan Poe enthusiast, and seek out the killer."

Alice was pleased with her ability to bring herself onto the case. She knew it would only be a matter of time before she got close to Luther.

 **Chapter 10**

The phone at Luther's desk rang again. He signaled Benny to be ready as soon as he picked the phone up from the receiver.

"DCI Luther." He stated.

"Deh-dum, deh-dum, deh-dum." The sound of the heat beat again. "Deh-dum, deh-dum, deh-dum."

Luther looked over to Benny and asked, "You getting this?" His tone had a sense of urgency to it.

"Yes, sir. But it is still a very wide range."

The phone went silent. A few seconds later, the caller hung up.

"Did we get it?" Luther asked, his face weary, expecting a negative response.

"No. Sorry, boss. He is too quick to hang up. He must know we are trying to trace him."

"Alright" Luther began. "Let's keep this thing together. We can do this, people." He was trying to be encouraging. "Let's just keep working on it. He's bound to be out there somewhere. He wants us to get close to him. He wants us to know who he is!" Luther's voice began to rise, equal parts fury and encouragement to his fellow officers. "He saw me last night on the tele, he figured out who I was, and he called my desk phone." At this he looked at Benny and said, "Figure out where that call came from. He had to have asked a secretary in the department to direct his call." Luther realized after noting that the killer would have watched the news reports and seen Luther's name appear on the television as he spoke with reporters. Luther also knew this meant that the killer would be tracking him, observing him, and perhaps waiting for an opportunity to attack him. But Luther couldn't think about that just now. He couldn't allow for the killer to deprive him of his focus.

Luther went back to sitting at his swivel chair with the photographs strewn across the station floor. The other officers and inspectors went back to their jobs, staring at their computer screens, looking for any clues or leads they could find, or, working the several other cases that make up the daily work of a London police officer.

After several minutes Luther stood up from his chair and took several slow steps. He started to chuckle but quickly put his hand over his mouth so as to hide that he was astounded at his own foolishness. He stopped in his tracks and turned to Teller, who was sitting at a desk close by and said, " _The Tell Tale Heart_."

"Come again?" Teller asked.

"It's Poe's story where he kills the old man in his house, buries him underneath the floorboards, and when the police inspect the house, the killer confesses his crime after hearing the sound of the old man's heart beating from underneath the floor. But where is it that he wants us to look?" At this, Luther lost his temper and picked up the swivel chair he had been sitting in and threw it across the room. The chair slid across a desk taking with it a pile of papers, a telephone, and one, now obviously upset officer's personal knick-knacks including a photograph of his family at a beach vacation and an origami swan his daughter had made for him at school. The officer, now coming back from getting a cup of coffee, looked at Luther, dismay written on his face, begging the question, 'why?' The other officers either stood or sat at their desks in silence, looking at Luther and the other officer. Luther rubbed his forehead with his fingers before taking a deep breath, turned and looked at the other officer, whose name he could not remember just then, and calmly apologized. "I'm sorry. I should not have done that, mate." Luther then walked out of the police station, there was silence but for the sound of the door opening and then closing behind him.

 **Chapter 11**

Alice Morgan spent the day after leaving Baker Street researching various literary circles in London in the hopes of finding groups that focused on nineteenth century American gothic literature. She thought that perhaps the killer might be a member of one. After finding three such groups during an internet search she decided to investigate each of them further.

She e-mailed each of the groups, which all seemed to very quickly respond to her inquires, and found that one of them, inspired by what the media was now calling, 'The Poe Killer', was going to focus on the stories and poems of Edgar Allan Poe. They were having a meeting that evening to hear a reading of _The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether_ , a story in which lunatics at an asylum take the staff hostage and the lunatics run the asylum themselves. 'What a wonderful idea' Alice thought to herself, having been the resident of one such institution herself. The reading was to be followed by a discussion in which the group was encouraged to discuss, ask questions, and debate the literary merits of the story. Alice downloaded a copy of the story on her mobile, read it, and sent a text to both Sherlock Holmes and John Luther about her findings. She hoped this would be enough of a gift to Luther to get him to speak with her, and if not, she hoped that by Sherlock working the case, the consulting detective might be able to bring the two together.

Luther, meanwhile, was getting into his car after storming out of the police station. He looked at his mobile and saw that Alice texted him again. Blood flooded his face as a sudden sense of rage rushed to his head. He banged the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. Part of his frustration came from the fact that he had to admit to himself that Alice's move to investigate book clubs was a smart idea. He wished that he had thought of it first.

He sat in his car. He put the key into the ignition and as he was just about to start the engine, he hesitated. He didn't want to text Alice back and start a conversation with her, but he knew it would be a smart plan. Allow Alice to infiltrate the book club. She was smart and as far as Luther knew, no one would be able to piece the connection between them. Not to mention, Alice seemed the type that would join such a club, smart, bookish, and with a gothic vibe.

He decided to text her.

"Clever idea, Alice. Let me know what you find."

A few seconds later she texted him back.

"See, was that so hard? All I ask is that we work together. I get information for you, you give me the chance to share it."

Luther knew, and was well aware that Alice knew, their relationship wasn't so simple. Either way, he had just conceded to her that she could be useful to him on this case. Alice loved to prove that to him. It wasn't so much a reassurance to her of her own intelligence, she was confident in that. But Alice needed to know that others know just how intelligent, that she is smarter than them. She loved that John was just smart enough to know that she had in fact killed her parents, and had even pieced together how she did it, but he hadn't been smart enough to find a way to punish her for the crime. With this case, Luther knew she was reminding him of that fact. She was telling him without having to say it, 'You are smart John, but you aren't that smart. Not as smart as I am, and that is what matters.'

Luther started his car and drove off. He decided to stop for a coffee somewhere outside the office and get his head straight. He drove several minutes before finding a garage to park his car. The walk from his car to the streets of London and ultimately to a small coffee shop at the corner of the street did his mind a lot of good. He cleared his head of his anger back at the station as he breathed in the London air. When he sat down to have his coffee, he saw a television tuned to BBC News. Luther heard that the murderer was now being referred to as the 'Poe Killer'. He smiled at this, not so much because he found it humorous, but that this is exactly the type of attention the killer was looking for. What Luther couldn't figure out was 'Why Poe?' What was the obsession this killer had with the mid-nineteenth century American author?

…...

Alice Morgan took a seat towards the back of the room. She was sitting in a college lecture hall where the reading of Poe's story was about to take place. Although she was one of the first to take her seat, the room began to fill. Within ten minutes, when the reading was scheduled to begin, the room had filled to about half capacity. There were roughly fifty people in the room, most of them appeared to be college students, but a small number of elder literary enthusiasts and some that seemed about her own age were also in attendance.

The reader entered the room through a door in the front. He was dressed in a rather bohemian manner wearing black shoes, pants, and shirt, but with a light gray scarf; which looked in desperate need of a cleaning. He carried a hardbound book, a dark blue cover, old and worn, obviously read several times over. He wore a pair of reading glasses, and his hair was white, bushy, and unkempt. He approached the wooden podium at the front of the room, placed the book on top if it and opened the aged volume. He did not turn many pages, despite the book's size, and with not even a bookmark to note the place, the reader was able to quickly turn to the page he was searching to find.

Once he was ready, the reader raised his head and scanned the audience in the room. He showed no reaction, but after acknowledging his audience he lowered his head, and looking at the book began to read.

" _During the autumn of 18_, while on a tour through the extreme southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles of a certain Maison de Sante' or private mad-house, about which I had heard much, in Paris from my medical friends…_."

Alice found something peculiar about the reader's voice. It seemed oddly familiar to her. It was distracting her so much she stopped paying attention to the story he was telling and focused on him, desperately trying to piece together how she knew him. After several minutes of this she paused from this endeavor and decided to scan the room to see if she noticed any odd behavior. She hoped the Poe Killer was in this very room. She tried to identify anyone that matched the description identified in the video depicting Melissa Peters' death. What was odd to her is that perhaps up to five people in the room, that she could see, met that description. Being that she was sitting in the back of the lecture hall, her vantage point consisted mostly of the backs of heads. She could only see the profiles of those sitting on the opposite side of the hall. Still, this did not give her a clear view of their entire faces.

One of the five did stand out more than more the others. He looked to be a man of average height, Caucasian, dark straight hair that appeared to show the start of receding along the forehead. He looked to be about in his mid-thirties. He was well-dressed in a navy blue suit with a red and white diagonal striped tie. He seemed entranced by the reader. Alice didn't believe him to be paying attention to Poe's tale so much as he was absorbed in the one reading it. He had a smile on his face, just small enough that it did not expose his teeth. His eyes were wide and quite dark. He must have noticed Alice staring at him too long because he turned his head in her direction. She didn't try to turn her head away quickly, realizing that he had already caught her staring at him. Instead, when their eyes met from across the room she merely tilted her head slightly and smiled in his direction before turning back to pay attention to the story. She had gotten the full measure of his face, it wasn't him, he was not the killer she was looking for. Still, there was something unsettling about this man to her.

Several minutes later the reader finished the telling of the tale. The audience clapped in appreciation of how well and dramatically the reader had told the story.

"Does anyone have a question about the tale, or have a topic on it that we might discuss?" The reader asked his audience. About a dozen people raised their hands. Alice gathered that the discussion could go on for a while as each question would be followed with a response by the reader and perhaps others in the audience would choose to partake in the discussion of each question. The first one to speak was the dark haired man Alice had set her eyes on before.

"Professor Morearty, would you agree that the purpose of this tale is to suggest that we are all insane, at least in some way?"

"Interesting question, what is your name young sir?" The reader asked.

"Funny you should ask sir, as it is spelt very nearly as your own. My name is James Moriarty, but with an 'I' rather than an 'E'." Moriarty then smiled at the reader, this time sure that it was a large smile and a mouth full of pearly whites was exposed.

 **Chapter 12**

Luther's phone rang. He felt it vibrate in his pants pocket. When he looked, he saw it was Teller calling him. He answered.

"Boss, yeah." He said

"John, we got an address. He called again, but this time he stayed on the line long enough for Benny to get a trace. I'll text it to you, but promise me you won't do anything stupid like go in without back up." Teller pleaded.

"Alright." Luther said, but with some reluctance in his voice. However, he knew Teller wouldn't give him the details unless he consented to her demands.

"And John," Teller said, "He spoke to us. He said, 'I just can't take it anymore. What I've done is wrong. I'm so sorry.'"

"Ok, well, we'll see about that." Luther responded, doubting the killer's feelings.

Luther got into his car and drove to the address Teller sent him. It was an old house on the outskirts of London. It looked abandoned. There were no other houses in the vicinity. Just then, as Luther was getting out of his car, several police vehicles arrived on the scene. Dusk was turning to dark as the sun had nearly set, but the full moon ensured at least some light by which to work into the night.

Luther and the squad of police, several of them armed, made their entrance into the house by breaking down the door. They moved quickly to secure the ground floor of the two story building before sending officers into the basement and upstairs. Luther heard the loud calls for "clear!" as each room was searched for occupants and devices such as bombs or booby-traps. Luther directed his attention to the floor and the ceiling. He found a rug in the living room, lifted it, looking for a trap door or opening in the floor boards. Nothing.

Luther turned his attention to the ceiling. He heard a number of police going up the stairs then searching the upper floor. Again he heard the yelling of the word "Clear!" as room by room was searched. Then all of a sudden it became very quiet for a few seconds. Luther looked over to an officer that was in the living room with him. The officer, holding a large gun, simply looked up at the ceiling, Luther's eyes followed, now in a state of alarm. All of a sudden there were shouts, "Get out! Get the fuck out of here!" The officers on the downstairs floor raced for the nearest exit they could find. Luther followed the officer that had been in the living room with him. Luther was able to exit the house and begin running through the front yard back towards the police cars as a ball of fire exploded, shattering windows from the house, first the windows upstairs and in quick succession the ones downstairs. Flames burst through the second floor walls. The force of the explosion was enough to knock Luther and several officers that had managed to escape the house to the ground. Luther lay on the ground covering his head with his arms, debris falling from the house. He heard a plopping noise next to him and when he moved his head to the left so as to allow himself to see, the smoldering arm of one of the police officers lay beside him. It was red with blood and blackened with charred skin. Luther got up quickly and ran back to his car where he was able to protect himself from the falling glass, wood, and brick by taking cover behind his Volvo.

When he determined it was safe enough to do so, he looked over his car to Teller who was on a walkie-talkie, obviously communicating with headquarters that there had been an explosion and that several officers were down and medics were needed right away. When Luther scanned the scene he saw another officer, lying on the ground shaking, a nasty wound to the throat being attended to by another officer. A few seconds later the officer went limp; dead from blood loss.

…

The lecturer of Poe's tale, Professor Morearty, smiled when James Moriarty mentioned the similarities in their name. He then said to the audience member, "That is very interesting, the two of us sharing a similar name. But as to your question, I think this would be a good time to open the discussion to others in the room." At this, Professor Morearty left the podium running in a serious hurry, exited the lecture hall, all much to the astonishment of his audience. Confusion began to set in as the audience looked at each other and began chatting about the odd exchange that had just transpired.

Alice took this as a cue and left the hall, looking for Professor Morearty. She ran down a hallway and caught sight of the professor as he opened the door to a stairwell. She followed and when she looked down the stairwell, she saw the professor two flights of stairs lower. "Oy!" She yelled to him. "Stop now!" She commanded as she pulled a gun from her coat.

Professor Morearty did as she demanded. He looked up at her and slowly moved his hands so as to not make any sudden moves and removed the wig of white hair from his head. He smiled. Alice recognized Sherlock Holmes immediately and shook her head in amazement at his disguise.

"Hurry! There isn't a second to lose!" Sherlock said to Alice and they both fled, getting out of the building as quickly as possible. She wanted to ask him several questions, but did not, realizing that there would be time for them later.

 **Chapter 13**

That evening Luther was at the hospital. He was examined for injuries. Having had only suffered small cuts and bruises, he remained at the hospital to see if one of the injured police might become well enough to speak with him about what happened in the upstairs of the house right before the explosion. As he waited in one of the hospital waiting rooms, he watched events unfold on the news. It was reported that three police had been killed and eight had been injured, all to varying degrees. Luther was counted in that eight because he has been cut and bruised. He thought it a bit ridiculous to count himself in with a lot of officers that had lost limbs, been blinded, or had broken bones.

After another twenty minutes, one of the officers, now out of surgery for a broken leg, was able to speak with Luther about what had happened. A nurse escorted him to the officer's hospital bed.

"How are you feeling?" Luther asked him.

"I'll be alright." He said. "How many did we lose?" He asked Luther.

"The news says three. I haven't gotten anything official. I just figured I'd hang around and get some information from you if that's alright. Maybe it will help lead us to the man that did this. So what happened? What do you remember?"

"Well, we got upstairs. It seemed clear, anyway. Then, one of our guys signaled for us to get quiet. We heard what sounded like a heartbeat, coming from underneath the floor. The spot where it was heard loudest was under a rug. So, Officer Michaels lifted the rug. That's all I remember. I saw a flash of light, a sharp pain in my leg, and then I must have blacked out."

"Sadly, I have to report to you that Michaels died." Luther hated to have to tell the officer the bad news. "It was a point blank explosion right over him."

"Is my family here, yet?" The officer asked, fighting back tears at the news of his colleagues' death.

"Yeah, I'll have them sent in. Thanks for the info. You take care of that leg. No running marathons for a while." Luther said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood and help the officer get in the right frame of mind before his family saw him.

Luther left the hospital and went home to get some sleep before starting again in the morning. When he got to his flat he popped a couple pain pills, drank a small glass of water, and went to bed. The day had been so exhausting that he fell asleep quickly, despite his last thoughts before falling asleep being that of the bloodied arm falling beside him as he escaped the explosion.

 **Chapter 14**

Sherlock and Alice were both running at a frantic pace on the university campus. The moon light and the LED lights on the campus sidewalks keeping the path illuminated. It was hard to see anything beyond the sidewalks as the quad appeared pitch black, a perfect spot for someone to hide and leap out at the two of them. Sherlock was grabbing hold of her hand whenever they had to make a quick and sudden turn around a building or across a walkway. Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and put his fingers towards his temples. Alice pleading with him, "What are you doing? Let's go!"

"Stop! Just Stop!" Was all he replied to her.

What Alice did not realize was that Sherlock had just entered his Mind Palace. He was visualizing the map of the university and determining the time it would take to get from where he was to a different location on campus. After several seconds of Alice staring at Sherlock wondering what he was doing, Sherlock lowered his hands, opened his eyes as he lifted his head, and said to her, "Let's go! This way!" As he pointed in another direction and signaled her to follow him.

They sprinted across a handful of lecture halls and dormitories, then, as they turned a corner around a red bricked building, Sherlock cocked his fist and stuck it out in a stunning punch that had knocked a young man, of about college age, directly in the face, causing him to fall to the ground. As the young man put his hands to his face to comfort his injury, he squirmed along the ground. Sherlock took a deep breath and looked down at him. "The gig is up, Paul. Time to turn yourself in."

Alice looked towards Sherlock with a quizzical countenance. "Sherlock, what is going on here?" She asked.

"Elementary my dear, Alice." Sherlock began. "The young man writhing on the ground in front of you is our Edgar Allan Poe. An agent of James Moriarty. I think it is time we deliver this murderer to DCI Luther. Wouldn't you say?"

As Sherlock pulled Paul up to stand, Alice was left speechless. She instantaneously found a new respect for Sherlock Holmes. Surely he must be far more intelligent than she had ever given him credit for.

"Alice." Sherlock looked towards her. You may want to keep that gun handy should our suspect try anything."

With this, Sherlock let go of Paul, Alice with her gun pointed directly at him, and called Luther to pick up the suspect. Paul said nothing during all of this and, fortunately for Sherlock and Alice, seemed cooperative and did not attempt to flee.

Luther had fallen asleep and left his phone off. He did not get Sherlock's call that night. After Sherlock tried several times to call and then text Luther, he contacted DCU Teller, who came, along with DCU Martin Schenk, to pick up the suspect, Paul. Sherlock had done all he could for now. He and Alice decided to go back to Baker Street, meet up with Watson, where Sherlock would explain how he had solved the case of the Edgar Allan Poe killer.

…...

Back at Baker Street Sherlock was in the company of John Watson and Alice Morgan. He explained that he knew the suspect, Paul, had to be an agent of Moriarty.

"Moriarty, recently returned to the London criminal scene, needed to make a high profile entrance that I would recognize as being him, but the nature of the case needed to leave the media and the London Police preoccupied with a completely different suspect. In this case, Paul. Why Paul went along with Moriarty's plan will be for DCI Luther to determine. However, while at the residence of James Peters I noticed a shoe print in the dust remaining from when Paul reset the wall. The soles of the shoe were of a different style, but more importantly, a different size from those of James. At this point I could rule out James as the killer and knew that Melissa had been killed in the home and was behind the wall. The cat's litter box was really just a detail.

Then of course was the tell-tale, pardon the pun, detail that the killer exposed his face during the murder video. I accessed the police data base and found Paul had a driver's license, which obviously included his photo. I knew that Moriarty couldn't, in all his narcissistic glory, refuse to appear at a lecture on Edgar Allan Poe in which a Professor with a strikingly similar name would be reading and discussing one of Poe's works. But Moriarty also couldn't risk being captured. So he brought Paul along with him, knowing that Paul would likely be captured before himself. After Moriarty spoke to me, it seems that Paul had figured out he was being used as a pawn and attempted to flee. This is when I, standing at the front of the room, noticed Paul walk out, just as everyone, including Ms. Morgan, had their attention drawn towards James Moriarty. I decided it was time to make an exit and go after Paul, given that I had to make a choice as to which suspect to go after. At which time Alice chased after me. Fortunately, this did not stop me from using my boxing skills to give Paul a good whack on the nose, thus rendering him incapable of escape. Of course, since I could only go after one, this left Moriarty to go free."

"Why didn't you signal for me to go after Moriarty?" Alice asked.

"Some other time. We will get Moriarty. Today just wasn't that day. We needed to go after the immediate threat and he was getting away. Moriarty had several minions in the lecture hall. Had we attempted to take him down at that time, he would have gotten away, as would have Paul. Who can say what would have happened to us. He let us go after Paul. He was willing to give up that pawn."

"Well," Alice responded, cheerfully. "It has been an absolute pleasure, boys. I hope we cross paths again sometime."

"Goodbye Alice." Sherlock replied.

With that, Alice Morgan left 221 B Baker Street. She took a cab and was gone. Sherlock watched her leave from the window. He couldn't help but think of Irene Adler and how much Alice reminded him of her.

 **Chapter 15**

The next morning, when John Luther woke, he saw Sherlock's message regarding the apprehension of the suspect. DCU Martin Schenk, and Rose Teller also texted him. Teller informed Luther that Paul, the suspect, wasn't speaking to them, and since he had contacted Luther directly, with the message of the beating heart sounds, they wanted him to try and get the suspect to talk.

Luther got to the station, poured himself a coffee, then sought out Teller to ask about the suspect.

"Well, good morning, John." She said to him as he entered her office.

"Hey, boss. So, are you ready for me to speak with the suspect?" He asked.

"Absolutely. Just give me a few minutes to get him situated in the interrogation room. John, I'd like you to try and figure out his motives. Why did he do this?"

"Yeah, that's what I want to know as well." Luther assured her.

Luther waited until Paul had been waiting several minutes in the integration room before entering to speak with him. Luther wanted to increase the tension and make Paul uneasy. One of the legs in the chair Paul sat had been made slightly uneven, as a way to make him less comfortable. Luther hoped to go in and appear to Paul as the one who could help alleviate that uneasiness, therefore helping Luther build a relationship with the suspect. Get Paul to trust him. That was Luther's strategy.

Luther opened the door. He saw Paul with his mop of black hair, sagging eyes, the look of anxiety written on his face. Luther could tell right away the young man was terrified at his situation.

"Hello, Paul." Luther said to him.

"Edgar." Paul responded.

"Come again?" Luther asked, as he went to take a seat across from Paul, the interrogation table separating the two of them.

"Call me Edgar." Paul insisted.

"Ah. I see, you believe yourself to be the writer." Luther said to him. A smile crept across Luther's face. He wasn't smiling at the ridiculousness of Paul wanting to be called Edgar, after the poet, but that in Paul speaking to Luther so early on, he believed it would be easy to get Paul to speak openly with him. Either way, Paul did not respond to Luther's last statement. He simply looked at Luther, nostrils flaring, and then quickly turned his head away.

"Very well, Edgar it is then. So, tell me, Edgar, why did you do it? We know it was you that killed Melissa, I personally saw you in the video. You wanted me to know it was you. There is no, me having to prove it was you, it was. I know, a jury is going to know it. A judge is going to put you in jail for a very, very long time. So why not just tell me why you murdered all those people?"

"Melissa was a parasite. She used me. I hated her. She was so convincing though. She got me to do whatever she wanted."

"What do you mean, sexually? Did she rape you?"

"No, not that. She ruined me, financially. She got me to spend all of my inheritance money on these properties. They were shit. But her and that fucking banker, the guy I buried alive, they took it all from me. They promised that if I trusted them I'd have five times the money I started with. They lied! I went broke. They buried me, so I buried them. They deserved it."

"So this was about money then, was it, Edgar?" Luther asked.

"It wasn't just the damn money." Edgar told him. "They mocked me. They made me into a fool. I could see them laughing. I visualized it. Them. Laughing. They took everything. I was penniless when they were done with me."

"So they hurt your pride?"

"I trusted them. Melissa was supposed to be this stellar real estate agent. She told me she knew the market. She said if I bought those properties I could turn them around and sell them to someone else and make a killing."

"The house with the heart, the tell-tale heart. The bomb, was that one of the properties?"

"What else was it good for?" Was all Edgar would respond.

"So, why did you go after the police? They hadn't ruined your finances."

"What Melissa and that banker, Mark, had done to me was wrong. I tried telling the police. They didn't listen. They said they couldn't see anything they had done that was illegal so they told me to go away."

As Luther listened to this he began to feel a bit of empathy for this young man because he knew that the police had dismissed his concerns. Luther imagined how much easier this might have been, how many officers' lives might have been saved if only someone had noted a report that this man in front of him had previously called to lodge a complaint about the alleged unethical behaviors of the first two victims.

"Edgar, I agree with you. What they did, it was wrong. It was unethical and immoral. However, I'm a police officer. I don't get to make the law. I enforce the law. What they did, as a matter of fact, it wasn't illegal. Sad to say. What you did, in killing them, and in killing and injuring those police officers, that was illegal. Is there anything else you want to say?"

"No. Nevermore." Edgar replied.


End file.
